Rake Most Likely To Thrill
Another foot and they would have missed. The shock of the landing and the uneven movement of the deck beneath him brought the horse to his knees. Archer and Haviland raced forward.
Brennan rolled out of the saddle. Haviland was there to catch him, but Brennan pushed him down with a rush of incoherent words. ‘Stay down, Hav! Arch, the horse, keep him down!’
The first bullet whined overhead, missing Haviland by inches. Archer crouched beside the frightened horse, using his words and his hands to keep the big animal from becoming an accidental target. Now that they were all safe, Archer wished the boat would move faster. There was suddenly not nearly enough space between them and the dock. It wouldn’t surprise him to see Nolan’s man from the hotel show up. Everyone else was here, even the horse. Thanks to Nolan and Brennan, the morning had got off to quite a start.
Assured they were out of range, the foursome picked themselves up cautiously, brushing off their clothes and exclaiming over Brennan. Archer exchanged knowing glances with Haviland. It was going to be quite a trip with those two along, but Haviland was smiling as England disappeared. Archer nodded to the reins in his hand. ‘I’ll go speak to the captain about where we can stable this boy.’ As he moved off with the horse, Archer could hear Nolan drawl at the rail, ‘The real question isn’t where you’ve been, Bren, but was she worth it?’
Brennan’s laugh drifted over the wind, as if the mad chase had been a simple lark, as if there hadn’t been bullets fired. ‘Always, Nol, always.’ Sometimes, Archer envied Bren and Nolan their nonchalant ways, not seeming to care too much. They were proof that perhaps the unexamined life was underrated.
There was a makeshift stall above deck where the horse would be relatively safe. The Channel crossing was short. Just twenty-one miles of water separated England from France, but the water could be rough. Archer didn’t want to risk the horse doing further injury to himself, so saw the horse installed and ran a hand down each of his legs to make sure there’d been no damage from his leap.
Satisfied the horse was no worse for his morning adventures, Archer placed a hand on the horse’s neck. ‘I guess you’ll need a name if you’re going to stay with me.’ Archer thought for a moment. ‘How about Amicus? It means friend in Latin, and you were that today. You stood Brennan in good stead when he needed you.’
‘Especially since Cleveland Bays are carriage horses.’ Haviland’s voice was quiet behind him. Archer shrugged. He’d long since stopped caring if anyone heard him talking to the horses.
Archer smiled and stroked Amicus’s long nose. ‘Especially because of that.’ He gave Amicus a considering look. ‘I wonder if you might have been a hunter once, boy? It looked like you knew what you were doing when you made that leap.’ Fearlessly, as if he’d taken hedges and logs, heights and wide spreads, before. Cleveland Bays were the preferred carriage horse of royalty, and Archer knew a few breeders who enjoyed riding to the hunt on them.
Haviland stepped up beside him and petted Amicus. ‘Why do you suppose he did that? It was an extraordinary leap. I know horses that would have balked. He could have been killed.’
Archer gave Haviland a solemn look. ‘He decided England could no longer hold him.’
‘Like you, old friend?’ Haviland ventured. ‘Are you still determined to do this thing?’ Nolan and Brennan might not know of his choice to stay in Italy, but he’d confided in Haviland.
Archer nodded. ‘And you?’ Haviland had done some confiding of his own. Archer wasn’t the only one using this trip as an escape.
‘Yes. I want to taste some freedom, I want to know my own power, to see what might have been before...’ Haviland shrugged, his sentence dropping off. Haviland didn’t have to say it. Archer knew how that sentence ended: before he had to go back and give himself in an arranged marriage to a woman who did not inspire his passions.
Archer silently thanked the heavens again that he wasn’t firstborn. He at least had choices. He just had to make them. He and Amicus had something in common. He too had decided England could no longer hold him.
Chapter Two
The Pantera Contrada, Siena, Italy—early July, 1835
Tonight, nothing could hold her! Elisabeta threw her head back and laughed up to the starry sky. She let the wildness loose, humming through her blood in time to the musicians playing in the Piazza del Conte as she and her cousins drew near to the neighbourhood’s centre. There was already a crowd gathered for the celebration and they were jostled on all sides by good-natured merrymakers filling the narrow streets. She didn’t care. The press of people only added to her excitement. Tonight she was going to dance until her shoes were worn through and then she was going to dance barefoot. She’d dance until the sun came up!
It was her first real party since coming out of mourning and she was going to enjoy it, no matter what, which was no small thing in light of what had transpired this afternoon. Elisabeta grabbed her cousin Contessina’s hands and swung the younger girl around in a gay circle. ‘I’m going to do something scandalous tonight,’ Elisabeta declared, watching Contessina’s pretty brown eyes widened in shock.
‘Do you think that’s wise? Papa just announced—’
‘Especially because of that!’ Elisabeta cut her off. She wasn’t going to think about it—the fact that her uncle, Rafaele di Bruno, the contrada’s capitano, had bartered her off in a proposed marriage to Ridolfo Ranieri, the relative of another neighbourhood’s priore in order to secure an alliance for the all-important Palio.
Like her first marriage, it was not a match of her choosing and it wasn’t fair. Five years ago at the age of seventeen, she’d served her family and married the very young Lorenzo di Nofri. It was meant to be something of a dynastic connection for the family, and her feelings had not been considered. Then, Lorenzo had died after three years of marriage and she’d dutifully but begrudgingly done her year of mourning for her adolescent husband.
Now, at the very first decent opportunity, she was to be married off again. This time to a man in his late forties, more than twice her age, heavy and gouty from rich food and wine. Where would the chance for a family of her own be in that? Elisabeta forcefully shoved away images of what would be required of her to produce a child in that alliance. There was no place in this evening of celebration for dark thoughts.
She deserved better although her uncle disagreed. He was quick to point out she was lucky to marry again at all. She was no fresh virgin like Contessina, but a widow who’d been tried in marriage and hadn’t managed to prove her fecundity. Who would want such a woman? She should be honoured by the Priore of Oca’s attention and the chance to serve her family’s greatness.
The Piazza del Conte came into view and Elisabeta pulled Contessina forward with her to take it all in: people, music, lanterns lighting the piazza like a magical fairyland. Celebrations like this were being held all over the town tonight, with every neighbourhood, or contrada, hosting its own party. It was Siena at its best and she’d missed it sorely in the years of her marriage spent in Florence. She’d missed her family, the festivals and, perhaps most of all, the horses.
It wasn’t that Florence didn’t have festivals or that Lorenzo’s rich family didn’t have horses, but they weren’t hers and she was seldom allowed to work with them. Returning to Siena had been like coming alive again, which made the proposed marriage seem all the more cruel: to live again, only to face another sort of death.
Contessina tugged at her arm, slowing her down. ‘What will you do?’ she asked with a hint of worry.
‘I don’t know—something.’ Elisabeta laughed. When the inspiration came she’d know it. Spontaneity was best left unplanned. ‘Maybe I will dance with the next man I see!’ Elisabeth announced, but that was hardly scandalous to her way of thinking. She’d have to do better than that to be truly scandalous. She’d made the remark mostly to shock Contessina, who loved her dearly, but didn’t always know how to respond to her exuberance. Her uncle ran a strict household.
‘You can’t!’ Contessina whispered a warning. Contessina’s own dancing partners for the evening had already been arranged by her uncle and her brother, Giuliano. Even though it wasn’t a formal ball, Contessina’s partners were to be respectable young men from appropriate households in the contrada. ‘What if the next person you saw was someone from Aquila?’ Contessina dared to breathe the name of their rival contrada.
Elisabeta threw her a smug smile. ‘I would even dance with an Aquilini.’ She would too, but that was hardly likely. There would only be men of the Pantera contrada, her family’s neighbourhood, here tonight. No one would dare venture away from their own neighbourhood celebrations. Still, stealing a dance was hardly the type of scandal she was thinking of, it was far too tame.
‘What about your husband? What would he think?’ Contessina was almost aghast at the thought of disobeying male authority. Her father had ordered her life to perfection. She had lived sheltered and protected to ensure she made a good marriage. Contessina had never thought to question the dictates of her parents. She was a good daughter and she would do what she was told.
Not so Elisabeta. She had played the good niece once. She was not ready to do it again, if ever, and certainly not to the fat cousin of the Priore of Oca, no matter how rich he was or what benefits it might serve the family when it came time for the Palio.
‘He’s not my husband yet. The engagement isn’t even official,’ Elisabeta said sharply, irritated with the conversation and what it signified. ‘Perhaps I’ll find a way out of it,’ she teased, but she was only partially joking. If she could find a way out, she would. Ridolfo terrified her with his beady, lecherous eyes. It was clear how he saw her: another thing to claim, to put in his treasury of earthly possessions. She did not relish the idea of being any man’s slave, but especially not his.
‘How would you do that?’ Contessina, her brow knitting in contemplation, took her seriously. ‘I can’t see how it’s possible unless you were to take a lover.’ Contessina blushed as she said it. It was likely the most scandalous thing she could think of, an idea gleaned from conversations she wasn’t supposed to overhear when her mother gathered with the other women of the contrada to exchange gossip.
Elisabeta gave her cousin a wicked smile. ‘Exactly! What a perfect idea.’ The thought held merit, just the sort of scandal she was looking for, but the list of candidates for such an affair was horribly short. She scanned the piazza, selecting and discarding the men of the contrada. ‘Fabrizio is too old, I think I’d like someone younger, with more stamina. Alberto is young but he smells like garlic.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘No!’ Contessina was truly shocked now. ‘I only meant to tease, to demonstrate how impossible it is.’
‘How impossible what is?’ Contessina’s brother, Giuliano, sidled up to them, throwing an arm about his sister. He was handsome and wild, always in the throes of a grand affair, but life was different for a male. No one would condemn him for such promiscuity.
‘Getting out of her engagement,’ Contessina supplied.
Elisabeta moved to his other side and looped her arm through his, feeling mischievous. ‘Contessina suggested I take a lover.’
‘I did not!’ Contessina blushed furiously.
Giuliano’s dark eyes sparked with mischief of their own. ‘Ah, a last fling before settling down? A widow could do it, but not one who is affianced to another.’ Giuliano thought for a moment. She could see her daredevil cousin puzzling it out. ‘It could be pulled off, though, as long as you were discreet and the man you chose wasn’t an enemy.’ That meant not a man from Aquila or from Torre, the enemy of her would-be husband’s neighbourhood.
Contessina looked frantically at them, waiting for them to give in and say they were only joking. ‘Stop it!’
But Elisabeta didn’t think she would stop. Why not take a lover? Perhaps just for the night? Perhaps it didn’t have to be publicly scandalous, just a private interlude for herself. She deserved it and she’d been alone for so long. Even if her marriage had not been an intensely passionate one, she missed Lorenzo’s presence. Was it so wrong to want one night in the arms of a strong, handsome man? To seek a little comfort, a little pleasure? No one had to know unless she wanted them to.
‘Who would it be, Elisabeta?’ Giuliano’s playful pressing fuelled her madness. She would do it if the right man presented himself. Surely there must be one...
Elisabeta looked out over the piazza, towards the arch that marked the boundary of their contrada. Her breath hitched. It was as if the saints had conspired to present temptation and scandal personified. A man stepped through the arch. His height alone would make him stand out in any crowd—add to that those shoulders and it made for a remarkable sight. Good lord, they were broad, and that face! Even at a distance, the angles and planes were striking against the rich dark brown of his hair. It was longer than most of the men’s present, skimming his shoulders and falling errantly over his right brow. She cocked her head and gave Giuliano a playful stare. This man wasn’t a rival from an enemy contrada, he was something even more dangerous, a stranger, a man of unknown origins and family. That didn’t make the man dangerous, it made him exciting, and it made him exactly the man she was looking for.
Did she risk it? It would be daring, even for her, but that was what tonight was for. The town’s general spirits were high. The first Palio of the summer was behind them, her uncle victorious, his attentions already turned towards the Palio in August, and tonight people had gathered to celebrate the strawberry harvest: La Sagra del Fragole. Elisabeta doubted she’d be the only person present who allowed themselves to be swept away by the magic of a summer evening. Decision made, Elisabeta spoke her verdict.
‘Him.’ Her eyes studied the newcomer. ‘I choose him.’ Most definitely him. She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed him, though. The attention of most of the feminine eyes in the crowd had gone his direction, she noted. He was that sort of man, the type who could command the female population of any gathering. The real issue was whether or not she could get there first. She would have to move fast. Signora Bernardi was closer and already edging near.
Elisabeta straightened her shoulders and tugged the square neckline of her gown lower, letting the tops of her breasts swell against the tightly laced bodice, to Contessina’s dismay. She didn’t have to reach him first, but she had to make her intentions known, had to convince him she was worth waiting for. She flashed Giuliano a competitor’s smile and crossed the piazza, hips swaying, head held high.
Chapter Three
She was the kind of woman men crossed rooms for, or piazzas in this case, and she was headed directly for him. Archer couldn’t say he didn’t see her coming. How could he not see a woman like that; all those shiny black curls cascading down her back, the almond-shaped eyes that tilted ever so slightly at their corners as if they were always full of mischief and mystery, and the gown that set off the rest of her to perfection. The white of her shift peeked enticingly over the square bodice of a pale-green overdress laced over the full, rising curves of her breasts to a tight, slim waist before flaring out into provocatively swaying hips. The knowing smile on her lips suggested it was deliberate. She knew precisely what she was doing and what she wanted. At the moment, that was him.
The thrill of the hunt surged through him. Quicksilver eyes locked on his, and he held her sharp gaze, his own eyes communicating the unspoken message: invitation accepted. On his periphery, he was aware of women falling back, their interest averted by the advent of this woman’s approach. She had staked her claim. If she meant to hunt him, she might be in for a surprise. Like any stallion worth his stud, Archer would be dominated by no woman.
She held out her hand, and he felt the full force of her attentions. ‘Dance with me.’ Not a question, then, she was too bold for that, but a summons, and he would honour it. Archer took her hand. That was where her supremacy ended. In his experience, a bold woman wanted a bold man and he could be that indeed, a commanding stallion to her flirty, teasing mare.
Eyes unwavering, he led her into the dance and fitted his hand to her back, swinging them into the polka without a word. Who needed words when they had eyes like hers? A body like hers, that communicated everything she thought and felt? She gave him a toss of her glorious dark head, tipping it up to meet his. Archer grinned, and she answered with a wide smile of her own, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the dance.
Archer swung them into the turn and let the energy of the music claim them, his hand confident at her back as if it belonged there, as if they had done this before. He knew how to dance, how to navigate a crowded space, and she knew it too, recognised his skill and delighted in it, just as she was revelling in the sheer joy of the dance. The joy emanating from her was nearly intoxicating. She danced with her heart, her very soul, and it fired him, drove him to reckless abandon.
At the edge of the makeshift dance floor, he manoeuvred them sharply, bringing her up against him with the force of the turn, and did not relinquish her to the decency of distance. The pulse at her neck beat hard from the dancing and possibly from something more. She laughed up at him, confirming the latter. She felt it too, this surge of wildness, this connection between them although they’d not spoken a word—the dance was too fast, they were too breathless for conversation, too in love with the moment to contemplate the use of words.
What moments they were! Archer thought he would remember them for ever. It was an odd sensation given how many moments made up a lifetime, thousands upon thousands, most to be forgotten. Why these moments with a stranger who had lured him into a dance with only a smile and a touch? What made them different? What made them more valuable than all the other moments?
The music was ending. He took them through one last turn, his body memorising the soft curve of her hip where it met his, the straightness of her spine beneath his hand, his eyes discreetly taking in the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tight-laced bodice just as he was aware of her gaze taking in him, studying his neck and throat where his shirt lay open. This was summer magic at its finest: a beautiful woman in his arms to enjoy the music and dancing with, a starry sky overhead, an arduous journey complete. He felt quite the king in these moments. Archer tilted his head to the sky and gave a howl of primal victory. And he knew.
He knew why he would remember these moments; because he was so alive in them, she was so alive in them. They were breathing hard and laughing, drinking in the simple pleasures of music and dance beneath a starry sky, the summer air warm around them. Did life get any better than this? His hand lingered at her waist in no hurry to set her apart from him and he thought that indeed it just might get better. His eyes drifted across her face, resting briefly on her lips. This woman was no stranger to pleasure, not with that body and those eyes, and the way she looked at him—with boldness and invitation. The rest of the piazza might as well have melted away for all that he noticed anything but her.
Archer’s voice was low and private when he spoke, his gaze lingering meaningfully on the sensual curve of her lips. ‘Who are you, bella signora?’ They were the first words he’d spoken to her. She would know now that he wasn’t Italian. She would hear it in his accent. Not just a stranger, then, from a neighbouring town, but a true outsider. Maybe it didn’t matter where he was from for what they wanted of each other. ‘My name is Archer.’
‘Elisabeta.’ She returned his signals, letting her own eyes wander over his mouth. Arousal stirred hard. She had understood the negotiation. She had consented. They were to be Elisabeta and Archer. No last names, no true way to trace the other once they parted. There would be no strings, no ties that would bind them beyond the immediacy of the affair.
‘Well, Archer...’ she smiled up at him ‘...you are just in time.’
Heat intensified in his groin. ‘In time for what?’
She gave him a coy glance. ‘For strawberries.’ Elisabeta crooked her finger and beckoned with a ‘come-hither’ smile that left him aching. ‘Did I mention there would also be cream?’
The innuendo was not lost on Archer. He was going to come all right. Between the dancing, the warm summer night, the elation of having arrived at his destination at last and the seductive beauty in his arms, his body was fully primed for more intimate thrills. He had every reason to celebrate. It had not been an easy journey from Paris on his own. He’d had to leave before Haviland’s rather sudden wedding. He’d given up the summer in Switzerland with Nolan and Brennan. There’d been no choice. Time had been of the essence if he wanted to make Siena in advance of the August Palio. He’d known from the start he’d never make the first one in July.
Travel had been rough, the Italian inns rougher. But, oh, the journey had been worth it the moment he’d passed through the city gates, seen the town lit up and festivities under way, as if the party was just for him. He’d stabled Amicus, left his bag at the livery and headed for the central piazza, hoping to find someone to direct him to his uncle’s. The piazza had been quiet, but he’d followed the music to this neighbourhood and found more than directions. He’d been in this piazza less than five minutes when this dark-haired beauty had pulled him into the dancing, all fire and beauty in his arms, her quicksilver gaze flashing with life and exuberance, her body moving into his as if they were made for one another. Dancing with her had been effortless, just as following her across the piazza was now. He had no doubts where this was heading: to the food tables and to a quiet space in the dark beyond the lights.
Archer’s stomach growled, and he grinned. There was no choice to ignore it. Elisabeta smiled and passed him a plate. She gestured to each dish and offered an explanation, pleased when he nodded. While all of his friends had been studying French, he’d been studying Italian. His mother had seen to it that he had Italian tutors. It was paying off now, even if it was just to bring a smile to this woman’s face.
‘Risotto alle fragole, polenta con fragole, ravioli...’ She rattled off the dishes, taking a serving for herself as they went. At the end of the table stood an enormous vat-like bowl of strawberries and tubs of cream alongside various tortes. ‘La torta!’ Elisabeta beamed back at him over her shoulder, silver eyes gleaming in delight.
Archer took a healthy helping of everything. The smells alone would have been persuasion enough to try the new foods, but Elisabeta’s smile stole any reservation he might have had. The way she looked at a man, the way her eyes lingered over him in appreciation, he would have eaten slugs for her. There was wine to pour from casks after that and slices of hearty dark country bread to add to his burgeoning plate.
She led him to a quiet spot off the piazza where the lantern lights didn’t quite reach and the music didn’t quite preclude conversation. There was privacy in the darkness. ‘It’s the strawberry festival, in case you haven’t guessed,’ she said between bites. ‘We celebrate it every year. Most of the dishes of the evening are made with strawberries.’
‘It’s delicious.’ Archer took another mouthful of the risotto. It truly was. The food was rich and warm. He’d never tasted anything as good as this, not even the fine food of Paris could compare. He took a swallow of wine, letting his tongue savour the full-bodied flavour, a perfect complement to the meal.